


A Good Shepherd

by UnshoddenShipper



Category: The Order of the Stick
Genre: Brother Feels, Coping, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Start of Darkness spoilers, will add tags as they apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnshoddenShipper/pseuds/UnshoddenShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets, each Redcloak-centric, spanning all across his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Great Coping Skills

Stone walls far underground kept the castle dungeon's temperature consistent (read: cold), and the air wasn't marvelously fresh or well circulated.

Opening the cupboard above the sink and reaching behind various kitchen-related barricades, one by one green fingers closed about what their owner sought. Removing a plump, clear bottle and carefully bringing it down, he pulled out the stopper and gave his cup of coffee a dose. Resealing it, he returned the drink to its usual spot behind the Splenda, comfortable in knowing nobody would move it. The last thing he needed was to find that the Monster had gotten a hold of it and swallowed it whole.

Closing the cupboard noisily he padded to the table, rarely used by anyone save him. Settling himself with elbows on the surface, the mug was warm in his hand, instinctively comforting. He closed his eyes and sniffed. The coffee's acidic scent was marred by the smell of booze, and he furrowed his brow.

"REDCLOAK!" The undead voice reverberated through the lair, making any 'I didn't hear you's impossible. He had just gotten the melted butter and popcorn _catastrophe_ from the night previous out of his mind, and now he had to leave, giving the Monster free reign of the kitchen all over again. If it wasn't one thing, it was always another.

He closed his eyes once more and sighed, relishing the mild burn as breakfast slid down his throat, shooing the dungeon's chill from his body. The clicking and clattering of bare bone on rock alerted him of Xykon's forthcoming, to which he was determine to procrastinate a response as long as possible.

The kitchen door flew open to reveal a reanimated skeleton, who seemed to be grinning despite a complete lack of facial features.

"Redcloak, you gotta check this out, man. This adventuring party is hilarious. They keep killing all the ninjas."

"The goblin ninjas." Yellow eyes peered at him from over the mug.

"Yeah. Come on, the roaches are taking bets on how many more floors they'll make it. They have to be one of the stupidest parties I've ever seen; there's some serious comedy potential."

His own gaze held Xykon's red one, and through the lich's amusement Redcloak saw a flicker of something; it gave a vague sense he was unable to opt out of this invitation.

He pushed back his chair, little white mug clutched firmly in a long green hand.

"Right away, sir."


	2. Quiet Time

“This is good, Big Brother.”

“Good; I’m glad you like it.”

You sit cross-legged, forcing a crudely fashioned sewing needle through two rabbit pelts. Perched across from you, Little Brother munches on meat that was unevenly cooked, but whatever. Raw meat has more energy to give him, anyway. Outside your little cave, birds are chirping, and the sun hangs in mid-morning.

“Is that for the blanket?” The child asks.

“Yeah,” you reply with eyes on your work, pushing the sharpened bone through again. The string is sinew, and you’ve certainly seen better, but it will suffice.

“That’ll be nice,” Little Brother offers.

You smile, looking up at him. “Sure will beat this flimsy cloak, huh?”

Slowly, Little Brother smiles back. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m hoping, if we keep traveling west, we can find somewhere with more vegetation.” You return to your work, and Little Brother nods, tossing the bone in his hand to the fire pit. It lands in the charcoal bed with a soft _crunch_.

“It should be easier to find food there,” you continue, “And firewood, for when winter comes.”

He nods again, and you both fall into a comfortable silence. You are finished with sewing these two pelts together, and have moved to attaching them to the larger cluster of furs, when the quiet strikes you as odd.

Looking to Little Brother, his remaining eye is distant, his legs drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around them. You don’t know if you should disturb his thoughts or let him be- sometimes, he sunk into remembering horrible things. But sometimes, he was just grieving, and you aren’t sure what you're supposed to do about that anymore. Leave him alone to process? Ask if he wanted to talk about it? It had been several months since the attack, and it used to be easier to understand what he needed. He would be frightened, and be hypervigilant, and have terrible sleep. Now, his sleep was still terrible, but the fear he felt had been replaced by quieter things.

You wish you knew how to counsel a child through what he had seen, and what he’d lost. But if you were honest, you didn’t even know how to counsel yourself.

“Hey, rugrat,” You say, and he blinks, turning to you. His face is hard to read.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask, and he frowns. He sighs, little body moving animatedly.

“I just miss everybody sometimes,” he says, resting his chin on his knees.

You set aside the blanket, and pat your lap. He obliges, unfolding himself and rounding the dead firepit, settling down on your legs with his back to your chest. You wrap your red cloak around him, and rest your chin on his head. He sighs again, softer this time. You sigh too.

Your arms are folded loosely around him, and his hands are small and green on your sleeve. His claws, so little. You close your eyes, and squeeze him briefly. If anything ever happened to Little Brother, you don’t know what you’d do.


End file.
